Boil You Up Some Hot Strong Love
by She's a Star
Summary: In which Snape has a headache, Auriga contemplates sexy fictional vampires, and Celestina Warbeck proves a more effective torture device than all three Unforgivables put together.


**Boil You Up Some Hot Strong Love**

_By She's a Star_

**Disclaimer:** If I claimed to own Harry Potter, or the dazzling lyrical stylings of Celestina Warbeck, well, you'd just have to smack me. Clearly, I can't be responsible for such brilliance! (Auriga is mostly mine, however. What this says about me, I do not know. And, okay, I guess _Spell on My Heart_ is mine, too. Maybe I'm moderately ingenious.)

**Author's Note:** So, I was wandering on through my unfinished HP fics folder, when what should I come across but this! And, well, it's pointless. Like, a lot. Like, it might as well just not exist at all. But it is also funny. Or, well, I think so, anyway. And that must count for something!

I don't really know why this is set during GoF. It just is.

--

Severus Snape had a headache.

The precise cause of that headache, as it so happened, was certainly debatable, for he happened to currently harbor countless afflictions which could very well be responsible for his current state. There was, of course, the fact that he had had to teach the fourth year Gryffindors today, which meant that he'd had to suffer through an extended amount of time staring at Potter's insufferable mug – or at the very least, overcome with the very air of arrogance that seemed to pervade over every room he stepped into. And then, as if having to spend his days educating legions of helpless fools were not enough, he had to endure Moody's seemingly constant surveillance of him. (Snape was aware that Moody's magical eye held the ability to see through clothing, but did not often let his mind wander past the general knowledge of that fact, as it would no doubt have any effect except the inevitable intensification of his headache.) And lastly – yes – there was the fact that Auriga Sinistra was currently, in great detail and with the kind of passion that inspired erratic hand gestures, describing to him the plot of the newest Moira K. Mockridge novel.

"—and then she bursts into tears because, well, she's devastated, of course," Auriga went on, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that he was pointedly massaging his temples and seconds away from flashing her the most potent glare he could manage under the present circumstance. "Her husband's just been engulfed by a lethifold while she was forced to watch – what else would she be? – but then Bernardo just kind of comes up to her and takes her in his arms, and it's really poignant, you know, because although she can't feel his heart beating as she rests her head on his chest – as vampires don't have heartbeats, and all – wouldn't that be funny? I mean, do you—"

"I _know_," Snape said, inserting the greatest possible amount of venom into his tone, "that vampires do not have heartbeats, Auriga."

"Yeah, right, of course you do," she said with an easy shrug. "You were a _complete_ Dark Arts nerd back in school. I don't know what I'm thinking. Do you know, I'm feeling a bit giddy right now; might have been those few butterbeers in Hogsmeade earlier – But anyway!" (Snape buried his head in his hands.) "—So she's got her head on his chest, and he's sort of stroking her hair and murmuring that she's going to be all right – 'well, she's-a going to be all-vright' but, you know, more dark and romantic-sounding than that, I never really got the hang of a Transylvanian accent – and although she knows that he doesn't have a heartbeat, she still thinks that she almost _feels his heart beating against her own_."

She finished as though she'd just imparted upon him something truly spectacular, and he looked up to see that she had absently clasped her hands over her own heart, and was currently staring rather dreamily off into space.

Ah well. So long as she wasn't chattering incessantly to him. If fictional vampires inspired in her the need to go catatonic, all the better for him. Because, yes, he had reached a point in his life where he could tolerate her quite impressively – but not this. Not a faintly inebriated her, whose very voice made his head pound not at all unlike the aforementioned vampire's nonexistent heartbeat apparently had.

It remained silent for a moment. He resumed massaging his temples, and began mentally reviewing all the different potions he currently had in stock that would treat that sort of thing, and which would do the job most adequately. He supposed that—

"How come you never do that to me?" Auriga inquired, effectively shattering his thought process and increasing his desperate urge to die.

"Do _what_ to you?" he snarled.

"I dunno," Auriga said, sounding very much like an annoying teenager. She shrugged her slim shoulders and perched on the edge of his desk, depriving Pansy Parkinson's latest essay (a deplorable effort, much weaker than her usual work; no doubt because she was so busy seeking Draco Malfoy's affections) of the ability to see the light of day. "Act . . . well, you know, _romantic_. Like Bernardo did to Jasmine."

"Ah," Snape said, unable to resist breaking out a light sneer. Auriga, in her current whimsically oblivious state, did not seem to realize he had done so. "So you are wondering why I don't simply stand aside while your husband is devoured by a dark creature solely because I am driven by my own soulless ambitions and would like you for myself – probably so I can, after sampling you in bed to my liking, simply empty your veins and leave you for dead."

"Well," she said, after having spent a few very useless seconds contemplating it, "no."

"So then," he proceeded viciously, "you must be wondering why I do not cease the beating of my own heart, cradle you in my arms, stroke your hair – not a particularly wise undertaking, when one considers that Professor Kettleburn once attempted this and nearly lost a sixth finger within the mass of tangles – and speak to you in a feigned Transylvanian accent."

"Well . . ." Auriga pursed her lips and stared upward thoughtfully, before drawing the obvious conclusion. (She was remarkably slow at that, and had proven such on several occasions.) "No. And," she added after a moment, a spark of indignation taking up residence in her light brown eyes, "he did _not_ nearly lose a finger. He just got a bit . . . _stuck_. That's all."

"Yes, stuck, of course," Snape agreed. "An apt term, when one considers that the hospital wing and some very complicated wandwork by Pomfrey was required before his hand could be detached."

Auriga glared at him. "Served him right, for patting me on the head like that," she informed him darkly. "I'm not three years old. Honestly."

"I would not worry if I were you," Snape responded smoothly. "I doubt that the situation shall arise again – as a matter of fact, if I recall correctly, his retirement last year can be attributed at least partially to you, is that not correct?"

"_No_, that's not correct," Auriga grumbled, and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"Ah, yes," Snape said lightly. "It does get so confusing – that was Professor Sandersaught, was it not?"

"Shut up," Auriga ordered. "_I'm_ not the one who sings Celestina Warbeck in the shower."

Oh, dear God.

This very proclamation, in all its indignant fury, would certainly prove to be his undoing. Snape was not fool enough to think he could withstand it. Because not only would it bring back the fact that she would clearly never accept his perfectly reasonable explanation for this (at that particular time, one had not been able to turn on a Wireless _without_ hearing that confounded song – it had found its way into his brain once, _once_, and was perfectly excusable, especially considering the accusation came from a woman who had once kissed a house-elf) – oh, no. That would be almost too easy. Rather, this meant – there was no way this could _not_ mean that –

"_Yooooouuuu've_ . . ."

She was going to sing.

"—_put a spell on my heart, baby! Leading me through the dark! I can't bear us apart! Your love's left its mark! Oh, you put a spell on my heart, baby!_"

He closed his eyes and shuddered. It was every bit as painful as he'd imagined it might be. If she attempted to hit another high A, he felt quite sure that he would not live to tell the tale.

"Or – ooh, do you not like that one much anymore?" Auriga asked with an unbearable amount of false innocence. "Because I know loads more, my mum's a _huge_ fan—"

"Auriga—"

"_Oh, come and stir my cauldron, and if you do it right_—"

"AURIGA."

"What?" she asked demurely. "I thought you'd like that one. What with it being about cauldrons, and all."

"I have a headache," he informed her through gritted teeth, fists clenched and head pounding. "I have been forced to spend countless hours attempting to penetrate the thick skulls of the inept and insipid creatures that represent the future of the Wizarding world. I have endured the description of a story so ludicrous that it would be beyond the likes of even Luna Lovegood to devise. And now . . . you are singing."

He paused, allowing the words to sink in. Auriga was staring at him, her expression indiscernible.

"I am only telling you this," he went on coldly, "so that in the off-chance that I inflict upon you terrible pain, you shall understand fully and completely what you have done to deserve it."

Brow furrowed slightly, she opened her mouth to speak. Before actually uttering a word, however, he reached the decision that he was not quite done talking himself yet.

"I am aware of the fact that you ingested more butterbeer than is healthy or necessary earlier," he said. "However, you are not a house-elf, though you do tend to fraternize most questionably with them, and therefore this is not a reasonable excuse. Do you understand me?"

Auriga stared at him for a moment, and he allowed himself the fleeting hope that perhaps he had instilled some sense of fear in her – it had been so very long, and was the sort of thing that one missed.

Instead, though, she just rolled her eyes at him and said, "Well, you should have just said so in the first place. Honestly. Why don't you just head on up to see Poppy, then? It isn't exactly the dire situation you're making it out to be."

"You," he said icily, "were singing. That is nothing if not a dire situation."

"Oh, shut up," she said, and stood up. She walked around the desk to stand next to him, and placed a hand under his elbow as though ready to guide him up out of his chair. "Come on, then."

"I hardly need to be escorted to the hospital wing like a child," Snape reminded her irritably.

"Sure you do," Auriga responded easily. "Otherwise, you won't go, and I'll just have to sit here listening to you whine for the rest of the night."

"You speak as though listening to _me_ is a great and unimaginable punishment," Snape snapped, appalled by the sheer incorrectness of her achingly delusional mind.

Auriga stared innocently at him. "Your point being . . .?"

She didn't know. She truly didn't know.

"Fine," he capitulated angrily, reaching for her hand as he stood with the air of one hurling himself from a very tall building. "Lead me to the hospital wing. Pride yourself on your incredible hospitality; pen letters home to your mother raving about your countless shining virtues, your status as a truly incomparable girlfriend. Clearly, there will be no stopping you, and I am hardly one to – . . . what?"

Auriga had stopped frowning midway through his series of anguished proclamations (which in no way resembled whining), and was now studying him with an utterly peculiar and faintly terrifying smile.

"Girlfriend?" she inquired, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly in a way that was quite annoying and could under no circumstances be dubbed 'sweet' or 'adorable,' primarily because Severus Snape was not physically able to detect such attributes in anyone. Ever.

"What would you prefer?" he asked, and threw in a disapproving scowl for good measure. "Prurient mistress?"

Rather than providing any sort of pathetically crafted response sure to boost his sense of superiority considerably, Auriga simply smiled to herself.

Damn her. Damn her to the depths of hell and then right back up to the heights of Trelawney's accursed incense-drenched tower. She was the most insufferable creature he had ever encountered.

Well . . . except Potter.

But still.

"I'm sorry about your head," she said softly, the degree of kindness in her voice unquestionably fearsome and unnatural, and leaned over to press a kiss to his temple.

The pain throbbing through his skull did not immediately subside somewhat, and he was not at all overcome with a peculiar and unfamiliar sense that bore an eerie resemblance to fondness. Such things, after all, could not begin to be felt by Severus Snape. Ever.

"Severus?"

"Yes?"

She eyed him for a moment, traces of mischievousness lighting her gaze. "_I'll boil you up some hot strong love to keep you warm toniiiight!_"

Ah.

(His eye twitched.)

That was better.


End file.
